


could've been

by allsovacant



Series: something to cry on [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Death Fic, Gen, Johnlock Roulette, Sherlock - Freeform, sad fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 18:36:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15779769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant
Summary: In which Sherlock investigates asuicide.





	could've been

**Author's Note:**

> _Unbeta'ed for the love of mistakes._
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> A/N: Your comments are much appreciated. It helps me to keep going. And I am in debt for all of it. Thank you.

The door to the hospital's laboratory opens slowly creating a low squeaking sound when someone walks in. Sherlock always hated that sound. He sighs as he acknowledge the steps of the presence of someone joining him in the well-lit room. The owner of those footsteps were unconsciously dragging his leather shoes heavily on the tiled floor.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine–" Sherlock held an open palm in the air as he waits for his colleague's device. His eyes never leaving the specimen squirming on the petri dish under the microscope's lens.

Naturally, _nothing_ was given to him. For Mike usually leaves his phone on his coat tucked away on his locker. But what was unusual was the silence of the man he was talking to. Slowly, he lifts his gaze from the microscope and found the form of his colleague Mike Stamford unnaturally still—hands gripping hard on the edge of the laboratory table, head bowed down, and shaking from side to side occasionally. A sign of regret.

He continued staring at Mike as his mind sped into basic deduction. _Had lunch—Wine and Italian pasta—unfinished,_ his gaze drops down to Mike's hands— _had to leave immediately—. . ._

His eyes narrows and when he looks up, Mike was looking at him with sadness in his eyes. It was also then that Sherlock realises, his colleague's eyes were slightly red. _Had been crying. . .—Broken hearted? No. An argument from a relationship. . .? Perhaps . . . no also._

_Ah. . ._

It was then that it became clear to him, why Mike was out of his cheerful element.

Sherlock straightens up, pushing the stool backwards creating a soft screeching sound against the floor. He walks towards the other end of the table while he buttons his suit. Mike drops his head once again when Sherlock was across him, _still_ as a mannequin.

"An _estrange_  member of your family has. . . passed away?" Sherlock inquires, carefully stringing his words. For _emotionally compromised_ people, these times were the hardest.

Mike shook his head a bit, looks up at Sherlock, and then nods tersely which made Sherlock confused. Then Mike clears his throat, lowering his eyes back on the table before speaking.

"Not really _family_. He was a. . . A former classmate. . .an old friend of mine,"

Mike looks up back at Sherlock once again with a solemn look.

"May I ask a favour Sherlock?"

 

—••••••••••••••••••••••••—

The outside of the army-issued flat was already cordoned by the police when he arrives. A familiar policeman in his forties with a greying hair was giving instructions to his subordinates. Sherlock ducks below the yellow strip and walks behind the policeman. And as if on cue, the forensic police the man was talking to, sneers at him. Sherlock just smirked. The officer he intends to talk to, glances behind him, upon seeing Sherlock, he was acknowledge with a nod.

"Sherlock, what brought you here?" the man asks.  
Sherlock nods back, "DI Lestrade—Obviously, I'm here to see the body—" He starts in which the DI raise an eyebrow.

"I don't think so. This is off your chart. It's a suicide."

Sherlock sighs tiredly, "— _Yes._ I'm aware. But I'm here by request of a colleague." He replies while reaching into his coat pocket for a crumpled paper, he grabs the DI's hand, free from case files then thrusts the piece of paper into it.

The DI hums in acknowledgement when he reads the written statement, it has the signature of someone named Mike Stamford.

"Is this legit?" The DI asks cautiously, looking up from the paper to Sherlock.

Sherlock narrows his eyes as he looks down on his feet and then turning on the spot searching the pavement for something.

"Sherlock—?"

"Oh _for god's sake!_ —of course it was. I'm just doing a small favour. I wouldn't be bothering you if not for that. And the fact that Anderson is here makes me want to leave as soon as possible. Now _LET. ME. IN._ The time I needed was indicated." He waves a gloved hand on the paper.

The DI shook his head, looking at the paper again, then back at him. "Alright, alright. Calm down. Go ahead. Ten minutes. Don't _remove_ anything."

Sherlock sighs, exasperated. "Fine."  
He turns and walks swiftly towards the flat.

"And Sherlock—" the DI calls out.

Sherlock halted his steps, turning sideways to acknowledge the DI that he was listening. "Yes, Detective Inspector?" He mutters under his breath.

The officer straightens his posture, "When I say, _'Don't take anything.'_ I meant that. Don't. take. anything at all."

Sherlock purses his lips and drew a breath.  
"Must you be a—"

The DI waves a hand at him. " _Alright._ Don't talk. Just get it on."

Sherlock glares at the DI who misses his reaction, and then he's making his move towards the forensic van.

Just when he was nearing, the forensic police sneering at him earlier mocks a laugh while blocking his way.

"So—A _colleague?_ " The police asks in a mocking voice. "The world must be really ending." He adds.

Sherlock didn't answer. The forensic spoke again impatiently. "You aren't needed here, Holmes. It was a suicide. Clear as a day."

Sherlock then replies with a thin smile. "Mm. Very good, Anderson. You've learned to observed finally. But don't worry,—" He yells out as he moves passing Anderson, "You're still the top one that I need to point on the right direction."

And with that sly remark Sherlock walked towards the forensic's van shrugging off his coat and putting on safety overalls and gloves.

_____________

The flat is  _almost_ bare except for the single bedsit—a table with a lamp, a chair, and a single mug with a logo of RAMC placed near the lamp. The flat screamed dullness. Dark green curtains that resemble those in the hospital rooms hung loosely on the windows, darkening the surrounding. Pale cream painted on the walls. Even the jumper on the bedsit was cream coloured too. He absentmindedly picked the jumper feeling it over his glove protected hands, and then he sniffed it.  
_Cinnamon, aftershave, earl grey tea . . . gunpowder._

Dull. No. Normal. But above normal, different—something that smell, 'home'.

He put the jumper back on the bedsit and looked further around the flat. Then he walked back to the table and pulled the drawer open. There was a laptop, a mobile device that was still running a voice recorder app (interesting; Sherlock closed the app), few papers, scratch papers. Some hospital documents, personal documents that helped the police to identify the man. Then below the stack of papers are photos.

Sherlock held the laptop on his hands and opened it. After a few minutes of deducing the man's password, he was able to open it. He checked the browser history and found the man's blog.

_[The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson]_

And a single post, _[Nothing ever happens to me.]_

 _Nothing indeed. And no more will._ Sherlock thought. _You've finally succeeded Doctor. . ._

Finding nothing of interest, Sherlock returned the laptop to the drawer. He took the mobile and examined it thoroughly. Then he put the phone on his trousers back pocket . Sherlock, then, turned his attention to the photos. Some of the army, the battlefields, a childhood photo, some from a graduation ceremony. One Sherlock particularly likes was the photo of a girl with a long curly dark brown hair, wearing a black toga, had her arms wrapped on a smaller man, in a black leather jacket and the familiar jumper; same as the one on the bedsit. His eyes were deep blue and sparkling with mirth just like the hazel brown eyes of the girl. Blonde hair, and with a warm smile. He was the one holding the girl's diploma. Suddenly, Sherlock felt the warmth of that smile crawled inside his chest. Unconsciously he smiles to himself. He flips the photo and read the messy scrawl of a handwriting behind it.

_'Harriet's graduation,'_

After a while, Sherlock put the photos back in the drawer when again his attention was caught by another photo. He picked it up and gently touched it with his fingers.  
The doorknob of the flat turned open and Sherlock startled, immediately thrusts the photo on his back pocket.

He then walked towards the small kitchen table to where his corpse was slumped seated on a wooden chair, facing the sink. An arm hung lose. The gun was on the floor behind the chair, the impact had taken it off from the man's clutch. The other arm curled on the table, hand clenched.

Sherlock swallowed a lump on his throat at the sight. It was a clear shot at the left temple.

"Ten minutes up, Sherlock." It was DI Lestrade. "Found anything your colleague needed to know?"

Sherlock hummed as he removed the gloves, binning them. Then reaching for the coat the DI held out to him.  
Sherlock murmured gratitude. "Mm. Three or four reasons."

The DI nodded, clasping his hands behind his back. "I see."

"I'll be going now." Sherlock said as he move towards the door.

When he was almost there, the DI grabbed his wrist. "Sherlock, wait—"

Sherlock frowned at the hand gripping him. Eyebrows raised he looked up to the DI. "Yes?"

The DI let go of his wrist to be able to flip the pages of the notebook he had with him.  
"According to his millitary record, his name was John Watson. He was just thirty-eight years old. No family, except for a younger sister and on rehab. Alcohol addiction. Parents died before he enlisted on the army. He was also a Ca—"

"Thank you, Detective Inspector. I've gathered as much. He was a former _army doctor, and a Captain_. Served in Afghanistan—invalided just a year ago. A shot on his shoulder. Six months after he was dismissed in service, the army offered this flat. His personal bills says he's not doing well moving here in London—"

"His personal bills?" The DI raised an eyebrow.

"—inside his table drawer. Still intact. If you want a look."

The DI shook his head, "No, it's alright."

"Good." Sherlock put on his coat and made another move to the door when the DI called him again. "Sherlock,"

Sherlock grumbled impatiently, "What now??"

"Do me a favour will you? Please tell this Mike Stamford bloke that we'll take his friend to Bart's—alright? If ever he wanted to, pay his last respects."

" _Alright._ " Sherlock answered firmly.

"Right. Go on then. I'm gonna wrap this up here."

Sherlock then gave one last look to the blonde haired man slumped on the chair and then puts his personal gloves on, turns his collar up—and walked out to the night.

 

—••••••••••••••••••••••••—

Sherlock texted Mike about what the DI had said. In which Mike replied was that John Watson's estranged family had been contacted and that they are willing to help on giving the final rites to their family member. And even notifying John's sister Harriet about the devastating news. Lastly, Mike thanked him and asked of how he could repay him. Sherlock dismissed the thought and Mike was even more grateful. The man went then went on that he really regret he wasn't able to help John. Sherlock sympathised, he said his goodbyes and Mike expressed his gratitude again, before ending the call.

He was about to sit on his couch when he remembered the mobile phone. It was a major evidence but because the scene was ruled as suicide, he took it anyway. He put the mobile on the table then took off his coat and hanged it to the peg.

He went to his bedroom to change his clothes to a shirt, and pyjamas. He put on his blue silk robe then walked back to the living room.

Sherlock thought of napping. But his gaze found the mobile phone sitting quietly on the coffee table. _No harm in getting curious_. He threw himself on the couch, with John's mobile now on hand fumbling to it. He found what he was looking for and listened into it.

The saved voice recordings—And somehow Sherlock wasn't surprised to hear most of them were John's suicidal thoughts, how he was having difficulty dealing with them, even if he's undergone theraphy. John's shaking voice filled the flat.

Sherlock knows he should stop listening, he decided to. But then the next audio he heard was John laughing heartily, as if he never was suicidal the other day. As if he would never end up _dead_ on that date, a few hours later.

It was John Watson's last voice recording.

Here, the happy John was talking about how he and Mike accidentally met that damped Friday morning. And John mentioned to Mike that he needed to move to another flat but wasn't sure if someone would take him for a flatmate. And then John went on telling that Mike said there was another man in London, who said the same thing as he said—

Sherlock froze.

John and Mike was talking about him. Because Sherlock told Mike that he was a difficult flatmate to deal with.

But _John_ was talking about _him._

Suddenly, Sherlock couldn't breathe. His heart seemed to hammer through his chest.

John's voice over the phone was now talking about his supposed to be flatmate. The one that plays the violin—how he was excited to hear such music. How he thought that maybe just _maybe_ he will be rid of nightmares. And how he was even more fascinated, when Mike told him that his supposed to be flatmate was a consulting detective. The only one in the world. How life would've been thrilling with the said flatmate . . .

Sherlock could hear something on the edge of John's voice—

And then there was silence—  
And then the sound of someone shuffling things.  
A click of a metal handle.  
A push and pull of a drawer  
A muffled murmur.

Sherlock stared at the phone in his hands.

_It can't be._

And then at exactly, eight minutes and forty-five seconds, a gunshot broke the silence.

Sherlock choked on his breath, letting the phone slip off his hands. He startled and scrambled to his feet to get the phone again, and he pressed the rewind button at that moment when he heard John's muffled voice.

And when Sherlock played it, he's no longer aware of the tears welling up on his eyes.

**VOICE_0129  
07:52 _I'm so sorry . . . Sherlock._**

**Author's Note:**

> Well, one August night I couldn't sleep and so I started this. Whatever this is. It's dull I know. Just one of those... Angst fic I've started and couldn't finish right away... Thank you for reading!


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